


The Spirit of Song

by ihoardlibrarians



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Non-Canon Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:21:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25136830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ihoardlibrarians/pseuds/ihoardlibrarians
Summary: Krem has been hearing a mysterious voice singing at night and is surprised when he finds the source.
Relationships: Cremisius "Krem" Aclassi/Female Adaar, Cremisius "Krem" Aclassi/Female Inquisitor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	The Spirit of Song

“Do you hear that?”

Krem leaned over the edge of his bunk to look down at Dalish. Her eyes shone in the darkness. He rolled back into place and pressed the heels of his palms against is eyes. _Maker, I’m tired_.

“Hear what?” he asked, against his better judgment.

“Shh,” she hissed. “Listen!”

Krem held his breath and did as Dalish demanded. It wasn’t long before he found it, a haunting voice floating through their open window. Now that he knew it was there, he could pick out the words.

> “Hear the rain upon the leaves,
> 
> Above the sky lies grey.”

_Why was that so familiar?_

“Is that Maryden?” Dalish asked. “I’ve never heard her sing that before.”

Krem strained his hearing, but he couldn’t tell who the voice belonged to. It bothered him especially because he felt he _should_ know it. Before he could figure it out, the song ended. Silence fell over Skyhold once more.

* * *

“It’s happening again,” Krem said over his shoulder to the other Chargers. He leaned out the window trying to hear the mysterious voice more clearly.

“And it’s definitely not Maryden?” Stitches asked. He and Dalish sat on the floor, locked in a game of Wicked Grace. Whoever won this hand would win it all. Dalish placed her bet and waited for Stitches to reveal his cards.

“No,” Krem said. “I asked her. She never even heard of the song before.”

Krem focused on the voice again. It was a different song, but this one was familiar to him as well. Perhaps he hadn’t _heard_ it before—maybe he read it somewhere. That felt right. But where?

> “Ruby on the green, petals lost and drifting.”

Krem knew the next line and whispered it into the night. “Take her to his side, Andraste hear my plea.”

The final words were lost as Dalish let up a cheer and Stitches let loose a curse. Krem sighed and turned back to his unruly family. Dalish counted her winnings loudly to annoy Stitches, who crossed his arms and fumed.

“Whoever it is,” Dalish said. “They sure are depressing. Do they know songs about anything other than death and murder?”

“Maybe it’s a spirit?” Stitches wondered. “I heard that they’re attracted to the Inquisitor’s mark.” He swiped a coin that Dalish missed and walked it over his nimble fingers. “Is there such a thing as a spirit of song?”

“Why are you asking me? I’m just a humble archer.” Dalish pulled her most innocent face before snatching back her hard-won coin. Krem rolled his eyes at them both.

He supposed it was possible that it was a spirit, but he _knew_ that voice. He even knew the songs, but he couldn’t connect them. He closed the window before climbing up into his bunk, done with mysteries for the night.

* * *

Nights passed in silence, no mysterious voice to taunt his memory. Krem felt restless. Sleep was far off, out of his reach. He dropped down from his bunk and pulled on his boots. He froze when Dalish stirred. If he woke her, she’d want to go with him and talk. He would rather be alone.

She settled and he released his breath. As he slipped through the door, he heard her say “Have a nice walk.”

It was a gray hour at Skyhold. Sometimes it felt as if the Inquisition’s bustling never ended, but he finally found a time when all of Skyhold seemed to be at rest, save for the slow pacing of sentry guards staring out into the distance.

As he climbed the stairs to the ramparts, the voice rang out clearer than ever. The singer was close. There was something different about this song. Usually they sang with such sorrow Krem thought his heart would never recover from the ache it caused. This time, there was a sarcastic edge to what should have been a boisterous tavern song.

> “On the waking sea I ply my trade,
> 
> The yarns I spin do please the maids.”

Krem recognized the call and response tune. The Inquisitor had showed it to him and the chief after recruiting them from the Storm Coast. He followed the voice to one of the towers. When the next call came around, he dared to respond.

“Wink good ser and tell a saucy tale!”

The singer didn’t continue, and he feared he scared them away. He was so close! He tracked them to the roof of the mage tower. He just needed to get inside and climb up. Krem thought he’d drown in the oppressive silence that followed, but the singer broke it with the next line of the song.

> “A’shore for the night and seeking company,”

“So buy the lads a round!”

Krem yanked open the door to the tower and raced up stairs and ladders as fast as he could, slipping down rungs in his haste. He pulled himself up through the roof hatch in time to hear the end of the song and found the last person he expected, legs dangling over the edge of the roof, bottle of Hirol’s Lave Burst in hand.

Inquisitor Adaar looked over her shoulder at him and raised the bottle. “Drink?”

* * *

Krem sat down next to her and took the bottle she offered. “I can’t believe _you’re_ the spirit of song,” he finally said. Adaar barked a short laugh.

“I’m sorry, the _what_?”

Krem rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. Instead of answering, he took a long sip from the bottle, letting it burn its way down to his stomach.

“It’s what the Chargers were calling you. We didn’t know who the singer was, just that it wasn’t Maryden.” He passed the bottle back to her, so many questions on his tongue as he watched her knock back what remained.

She set the bottle aside and laid back to stare up at the sky, her feet swinging lightly. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or not.”

Krem laughed. “Flattered, I think.” He leaned back on his elbows, not ready to commit to the vulnerability of laying beside the Herald of Andraste to star gaze. “It was a mystery we couldn’t solve.”

Krem risked looking at her. He didn’t think he’d ever been this close to her before. Sure, he’d seen her in the tavern, but she always felt so far away even when she stood right in front of him. In the soft light of her lantern, she could be anyone at all and not a political or religious force for good. She looked almost mortal. Adaar hissed quietly as the mark on her hand flared. Krem resisted the urge to take that marked hand in his and study it more carefully.

“Should I congratulate you for solving the mystery or apologize for creating it in the first place?” she asked.

Krem gave in and laid back next to her. The starry sky became his entire world as Skyhold fell away from his mind.

“Congratulate me, obviously. I expected at least a prize if not a party.”

She laughed again. He never realized he could do that—make someone like her laugh. It was like having his own kind of magic.

“Unfortunately, you just get me.”

“I couldn’t imagine anything better, your worship.”

Krem winced. He knew that would be too much, too honest. He was ready to walk it back, distract her with a joke before she could leave, but she didn’t even move. Krem let the silence settle around him, content to be by the Inquisitor’s side, despite the strange developments that brought him there. He let his eyes drift closed, as the stars grew to be too much for him to take in. When the Inquisitor spoke, she was so quiet that he was afraid he would miss a word and lose her meaning.

“When I sing, I’m not the Inquisitor,” she said. Krem turned his head to watch her as she spoke, studying her profile. “I’m not the Herald of Andraste—I’m not anyone to worship! I’m just. Me.”

Krem didn’t know what to say to that. Even if she weren’t the Herald, he’d still find her worthy of worship.

“Most days it feels like I’m not even a person with all the _your worship_ this and _Herald_ that. I don’t think anyone even knows my name.” Adaar covered her eyes and laughed bitterly. “I’m sorry. I’m drunk and rambling. I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

Krem wanted to tell her she was silly, that of course people knew her name, but he couldn’t recall ever being told. She had always been the Herald. The Inquisitor. He knew one thing for certain—she was definitely a person.

“I can’t believe that your inner circle makes you feel that way,” Krem said, hoping he was right. “I know the Chief respects the shit out of you, Sera would follow you anywhere, and Blackwall—” he cut himself off. It was no secret that Blackwall put the Inquisitor on a pedestal. Their lengthy falling out over it could be heard across the courtyard. Krem changed tactics. “You could tell _me_ your name. I’d use it instead of your titles if you’d prefer."

Adaar tried to turn her head too fast and smacked one of her horns against the ground. She sat up and narrowed her eyes at Krem. He held up his hands in defense.

“What?”

“I’m trying to decide if you’re going to make fun of me.”

“My name is Cremisius Aclassi. Believe me, I’m the last person to mock anyone’s name.” Krem sat up and scooted closer to her so he could nudge her shoulder. When she didn’t respond, he chuckled. “After all that, you won’t tell me? I didn’t realize you were such a tease, _your worship_.” He put as much emphasis on her title as he could, watching her tense from her shoulders all the way down her back.

Adaar covered her face, muffling her response.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Crystal Grace! Okay? Are you happy?” Krem’s mouth hung open. Surely he misheard.

“You’re named for those little blue and red flowers? The ones that look like little bells?” The Inquisitor—Crystal Grace Adaar—crossed her arms over her chest and turned away. "When my parents broke away from the Qun, they wanted names that meant something. My father said that naming me Crystal Grace meant there would always be flowers at home."

Krem fought to keep the smile from his face. “It suits you,” he said with as much gravitas as he could manage.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t.” Krem was relieved he didn’t have to pretend, but he wanted her to know why it didn’t fit. He remembered the first time he saw her in battle—she flew in on the wings of the fade to swing her staff into a mage who had his sights set on the Iron Bull. She stood in center of the fighting, her blows connecting to each other like an elaborate dance, punctuated by magic. He risked touching her chin, tipping her face toward his.

“You are nothing like a Crystal Grace flower. You burn brighter than the sun and that has nothing to do with your mark. You are laughter and light and explosions of color in the night sky.” Her face was so close to his that he felt her breath hitch as he spoke. “I will find something else to call you, because Crystal Grace will never do you justice.”

“I thought nicknames were Varric’s territory,” she whispered, as if anything louder might break the spell between them.

“I think I’m the better man for the job.” Krem wasn’t sure what came over him. This was _the Inquisitor_. She fell through the Fade, traveled through time, healed the sky. What made him think that he had any right to be this close to her? And yet, there they sat, on the edge of a kiss.

Before they could connect, Adaar pulled away sharply. “I have to go.” She didn’t even bother to leave through the hatch as Krem arrived, she dropped down to the rampart below them and started running back to the main keep. Krem watched her go. _Was it something I said?_


End file.
